Family of beating victim wants people to remember his life, not his violent death

The birthday card arrived in the mail, inexplicably, like it did most every year.

Russell Gaynor opened it, feeling sadness and frustration, as he did every time he thought of his older brother -- the one he once idolized, the one who had become a ghost.

Inside the card lay $500 cash and a short inscription: "Don't spend it all in one place. I'm doing OK. Love you, bro."

No return address.

It was June 2005. Russell, 38, hadn't laid eyes on his brother, Norris, in years. The last time Russell saw Norris, he was living in Virginia Beach, driving a Jaguar and flashing money he said he earned running a ritzy restaurant. Then he slipped out of their lives, as he always seemed to do, leaving no way to contact him, no explanation.

Seven months later, the family would get its answer, but it would bring only more pain, more questions. Norris Gaynor -- the artist, the restless spirit, the childhood protector of his siblings -- was homeless, secretly living on the streets of Fort Lauderdale and battling what some say was mental illness.

On Jan. 12, his head was bashed in by bat-wielding teenagers who, police said, attacked homeless people for fun.

His death would make headlines, but his life is what people should remember, his family says.

"It's so easy to categorize people in society these days, it makes people comfortable to do that," said his sister, Simone Manning-Moon, 44, of Stone Mountain, Ga. "If we started to be less comfortable categorizing people, maybe that will go toward bringing back the humanity that some of us seem to be missing."

`Normal childhood'

Samuel and Georgia Gaynor -- a retired Navy man and a homemaker who sang in the Baptist church choir -- were hurt and confused each time their son disappeared. They had worked so hard to raise their children right. Russell became a writer. Their daughter, Simone, was a school board member. They had lost another son to cancer. What were they losing Norris to?

The couple had grown up together in a small Pennsylvania town and married after high school. They had difficulty having children, and their first son died days after his birth. They decided to adopt.

Norris was born June 11, 1960, in San Diego, near where Sam Gaynor was stationed. The first time they saw him, he was standing in a playpen.

"How could you not love a face like that?" his father asked, holding a photograph of Norris after the adoption.

At the same time, the Gaynors adopted a girl, Simone.

"It was quite the normal childhood," recalled Simone, now a member of Georgia's DeKalb County Board of Education. "We were a close-knit family. We moved around a lot because my father was in the military. My parents were always emphasizing our education and our character."

As years passed, Georgia Gaynor was able to give birth to two more sons: Gary Russell, who now goes just by Russell, and Jerome. As the eldest, Norris became the protector, keeping them out of trouble and occasionally getting into it.

"He was a roughhouser," Russell recalled. "When he was 13 ... he tried to make a jump on his bicycle, broke his collarbone and was rolling in the mud, laughing."

Norris' teachers said he had too much energy and wanted to put him on medication.

"I said, `No, no, no, I'm not going to dope him up,'" his father recalled.

When Norris was 14, Jerome, 7, died of cancer. Norris fell silent.

The family attempted a fresh start in the Atlanta area. Norris was a C student who liked to play basketball and football.

He rebelled against his father's plans for him after high school: college or art school. Instead, he picked the Army.

That's where Norris found trouble.

Years in prison

Norris served four years in the Army. About the time the family expected him to be discharged, his sister got a letter. Norris was in an Arizona jail, charged with armed robbery.

"It blindsided all of us," Russell Gaynor said.

Records state that on the night of May 19, 1981, Norris walked into a Tucson convenience store near where he was stationed, drew a revolver and demanded money. Police arrested him along with another Army man suspected of another robbery that same night.

"It would appear that the defendant's association with various individuals during his military service, for some reason or other, caused him to become involved in [crime]," a pre-sentencing report concluded.

The Army gave Norris Gaynor an honorable discharge, but barred him from enlisting again. He was sentenced to seven years in prison and was released in July 1987, two weeks after his 27th birthday.

His parents sent him a bus ticket home, but he didn't say much about the robbery when he got there. Norris lived with his parents and got a job as a shipping clerk in the building where his brother worked. Norris put in long hours, Russell said, seeming unusually driven and "hyper." Russell thought it was a symptom of his brother's "very diligent, creative mind."

His father suspected something worse: schizophrenia.

"He had the impression that someone was out to get him," Sam Gaynor said. "He was suspicious of someone watching."

Then one day, less than two years later, Norris vanished.

Rapid descent

Norris flitted in and out of his family's peripheral vision over the next several years. They would hear he was in Miami. Months would go by, and they would get a card from Virginia. Then California. Then nothing.

Always, when he was in touch, he assured them he was fine. Always, he refused to give many details. The family didn't know what to do or think; it was hard not to feel powerless and rejected, Sam Gaynor said.

"I could counsel him and tell him things, but I had no control. He was a grown man," the father said. "Sooner or later, you get callous. You get callous and realize that's the way he's going to be."

His sister now wonders whether the "restlessness" Norris had shown since childhood was something more.

"It occurred to me that there might be something wrong. But by then, the path was set, and it's difficult to talk with someone to see if he'd acknowledge it," she said. "He didn't want to be what he thought was a burden."

Public records offer the only detailed account of how far Norris had fallen.

In January 1990, Miami-Dade police arrested him on charges of lewd and lascivious conduct after he entered the car of an undercover officer and exposed himself.

By 1992, Norris was working at a Miami Gardens Home Depot when a customer wanted Norris to move so he could get by him in an aisle. Instead, Norris punched the customer, who fell, suffering a broken nose and a skull fracture, a police report said.

`Healthy and strong'

By 1996, Norris Gaynor had left Florida for Virginia, where he appeared to rebuild his life. Russell visited him there, although he never saw where Norris lived.

"He was riding around in very nice vehicles and insisted on paying for everything. He took me to this restaurant and everyone acted like he was the boss," Russell recalled.

Norris' parents also went.

"I'm almost certain that when he was in Virginia Beach, he had a doctor and had medication," Sam Gaynor said. "He looked real well. He was healthy and strong."

During Christmas 2000, Norris agreed to a family gathering at Simone's house. Norris, 40, drove up in a Jaguar. He posed for family photos and kept the fire roaring. When antsy, he'd feed the ducks outside.

Everyone knew not to ask questions.

"We had a real fine, Norman Rockwell Christmas," his sister said.

Russell had a harder time.

"I can remember my mother trying to calm me down," Russell said. "She told me you can't force people to respond to you the way you want them to and, as family, we have to take what he gives us and love him or we may lose him entirely."

They would lose him anyway.

Norris' family isn't sure when he returned to Florida. His brother thought he was still in Virginia. His father says Norris told him he was headed to the Tampa area a few years ago.

James Pardy, who works with Fort Lauderdale homeless, said Norris had been on Fort Lauderdale's streets at least two years. Pardy said Norris was different from most homeless people.

He critiqued the skyscrapers -- he loved The Symphony condominium but disliked the big, blue Las Olas River House. He toured public gardens, and was sad when the big clock at the nearby Museum of Discovery and Science stopped. He also loved Sunday mornings, when free jazz was played around Riverwalk.

Pardy said he once tried to take him to a health clinic for the homeless, but Norris bolted.

"He had a terrible feeling that if he ever opened up to anyone, they'd take him away."

`He has a name'

On the morning of Jan. 12, Norris' mother got the call. Her son had been found on a park bench, badly beaten, her phone number in his wallet. The hospital wanted to know if he was an organ donor.

The rest is a blur. Three homeless men had been attacked by teens, according to police. Jacques Pierre, 58, and Raymond Perez, 49, survived. A security camera captured images of a lanky boy attacking Pierre with a bat, a gleeful smile on his face.

"I can't fathom somebody being so brutal and so disconnected," said Sam Gaynor, 75. "I'm trying to empathize with [the teens'] families. I'm imagining their families are having some serious trauma."

After Norris' death, the medical examiner reported another troubling footnote: Norris had been infected with HIV, the precursor to AIDS.

"You don't know," his brother wonders, "if that was why he decided to remove himself from the family."

On Jan. 17, the family laid 45-year-old Norris Gaynor -- the eldest son and brother, the artist, the veteran, the convict, the homeless man and above all, the mystery -- to rest at the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Fort Lauderdale.

They do not want his story to die with him.

"I hope that people continue to talk about it, not as `those homeless beatings,' but as they say his name: Norris Gaynor," said his sister, Simone. "He has a name. He has a face."

Staff Researchers William Lucey and Barbara Hijek contributed to this report.

Jamie Malernee can be reached at jmalernee@sun-sentinel.com or 954-356-4849.